seventeen

How? How did he die?’ Hastings screamed at his petrified aide.

The secretary, a weedy-looking individual, kept silent. His employer almost never raised his voice at anyone and this new avatar of his terrified Cummins.

‘Well, Cummins?’ Hastings pressed.

‘I don’t know, sir. His son merely writes to inform us that Haider Ali is dead, and that we are to consider any agreements that we might have made with his father to be at an end.’

Hastings stood at his desk and looked out of the window. The beautiful cloudless night was sparkling with millions of stars, but to Hastings, at that point, they all meant nothing. He was at a loose end here: Captain Johnston could find absolutely no information about Rama’s whereabouts, and now his only ally was dead. Without Haider Ali, he had no way of getting the Sri chakra. He couldn’t get any more of his countrymen involved. If word of his venture ever reached England, he and his family would be ruined. He could not risk that.

No, he could not pursue this further. It seemed Rama had won.

‘Very well, Cummins. Make preparations. We will return to Calcutta.’